Rome 2: The Coming of the King (16 page)

After Kleopatra came Selene, Koriantos’ cousin on his mother’s side, who was sharper than she ever let on, and behind Selene … behind Selene stood the startling Alexandrian woman with the blue-black hair who had come as a gift from Poppaea, the friend-become-empress whom Berenice had loved, and who had loved her, and had understood more than anyone the many routes to power. Poppaea never did anything without good reason, and Hypatia, Chosen of Isis, had been her parting gift in this life.

Berenice did not believe that those given to Isis ever truly bent to the command of any other mortal. Their first meeting had been … disconcerting. Rarely had she felt so easily read, so readily seen. Her soul had been laid bare of its coverings and studied and it had taken a lifetime’s training to stand still and endure it, and smile, and maintain a steady flow of her own questions, so that she might not seem discomfited. She had learned from it, though, and thought she knew how to use that knowledge.

From her place at the head of her train, she turned. ‘We go next to the audience chamber,’ she said to Hypatia. ‘There, you
will watch and listen to everything that takes place, but you will not speak unless asked. Afterwards, when we are alone, you will speak the truth to me, as the Oracle does.’

Hypatia inclined her head. ‘Majesty.’

Berenice straightened her back and turned to face ahead. A hundred blazing torches had lit their way to the palace and continued to do so within it. She led her women down the corridor towards the audience room, sweeping at a near-trot along marble tiles beneath lamps that burned sandalwood with their oil, to keep the air perpetually sweet; past confusions of cut flowers, of blood-red tulips in gold vessels, purple irises and scented thistles in silver, yellow thorowax in white marble; past watchmen at ten-pace intervals, dressed in full chain mail, sweating in the hot, humid air.

The chamber was as it had been, but that a second dais had been raised, with a throne for the king. The two banks of seats were set opposite one another, women to the west, men to the east, with the frieze in echo behind.

Agrippa was already there, lost in all his tissue of gold, so much his father’s son, and trying so hard not to be. And beside him, as ever … was nobody, at least nobody that mattered. Two counsellors sat, one on either side, and if she had been pushed, Berenice could probably have named them, but the third seat, which should have been occupied, was empty. As queen, she could not be seen to smile, but her heart danced, seeing an opening where none had been before.

She nodded towards her brother and saw Agrippa twitch a reply. He was tense, possibly also in pain, and for the same reasons as she was; he had always been sensitive to the mood of the city and just now it was as jagged and vicious and full of hate as it had been on the night their father died, when his three children had hidden in a palace cupboard and listened to the slaves whisper of the effigies on the rooftops that men paid good money to rape and stab and set on fire.

It was not a good thing to remember. Berenice took her seat and, after a finite pause, her courtiers did likewise: Drusilla,
Selene, Kleopatra, Hypatia, those latter two not looking at each other, not making eye contact, which meant that the morning’s hunt had raised tensions or secrets that must be hidden.

And then, swiftly, Yusaf ben Matthias was ushered to a seat that was apart from both the men and the women, midway between both. The man who was the Hebrews’ most senior counsellor sat with his hands on his knees after the manner of the Egyptian pharaohs; with his beard and his so-costly silks, he came close to matching them for dignity.

Berenice caught his eye and nodded, fractionally, enough for him to know he had her support. She held his gaze for a heartbeat. They were not allies, but, for tonight, his wish was hers, and she needed him to know that.

A cymbal sounded the beginning of the conference. Berenice closed her eyes and sat back against the stiff, jewel-crusted throne and prayed to three different gods that Hypatia was at least half of all that myth and rumour said she was.

‘You pay us too much,’ Agrippa said, with no preamble. ‘The Syrians will wonder how you collected eight whole talents of gold.’

Yusaf answered evenly. ‘His majesty has six thousand loyal Hebrew merchants in Caesarea, each one of whom values the sanctity of God’s house above all else. If each man therefore donates a shekel here, a gold aureus there, even a handful of denarii, the amount comes to what our king holds now in his treasury. We commend it to his care, and pray that it might be used wisely.’

‘There are ten thousand Syrian men in Caesarea, and as many youths,’ Agrippa answered. ‘Would you have us hold them back single-handed when they endeavour to tear down your synagogue? They will do that if we grant you this. You must know that.’

‘I know that if his majesty orders peace,’ Yusaf said, ‘the peace will be kept. The Watch will see to that.’

‘The Watch can do nothing in the face of ten thousand angry citizens.’

‘And yet if it is known that the Watch will mount a guard on the synagogue, it may send a message to the Syrians that will cool their ardour.’

‘It will tell them that their king does not love them,’ Agrippa said. ‘It would not be true and we cannot allow them to believe so. It would be the end of our reign.’

Berenice saw Yusaf blink, open his mouth to speak and close it again. He lowered his head.

Nobody else spoke. Polyphemos lifted his arm to strike the cymbal that closed the debate. She caught his eye and made him stop; as queen, she alone had permission to speak after the king. She softened her voice, and yet gave it power to carry.

‘And yet if his majesty fails to act on so public a giving, on such a weight of generosity, if he returns the money, the Hebrews will likewise come to believe he does not love them. As will the Syrians, who may become importunate in their enthusiasm. It is well known that his majesty worships the Hebrew god. The gift was given to him. Therefore, he may use it as a pious act. None will think less of him.’

Agrippa turned his head, resting his chin on one finger, and studied her as if from a distance. She wondered then if he had been drugged; in the light of the many blazing torches, his eyes were dark dots. She thought he might accept, saw him nod, as if to an inner voice, and open his mouth and she leaned forward and forward, until Drusilla tapped her elbow and said, ‘Beware,’ in Latin, softly.

She had not heard Saulos enter. Soft-footed, smelling of smoke and rage, he strode past, throwing her a look of such loathing, such triumph, that she felt her heart tumble in her chest. Shock held her still as he took his seat and by the time he had turned he was still again; the consummate counsellor, all-wise and ready with an answer. His features, when he turned to Yusaf, were a portrait of restrained regret.

‘The king loves all his subjects equally,’ Saulos said. ‘Which is why he must return the gold to the Hebrews and yet forbid the Syrians from any further action which will discommode them
in their worship. In such a way, will he be seen to reign with an even hand, fairly and decently.’

Yusaf slapped his hands on the chair arms. ‘But there will be chaos! The Syrians will take advantage. Our youths will not be restrained. They will—’

‘They will do as their king commands. As will you.’ Saulos’ voice held a new bite. ‘And now he commands you to silence.’

Agrippa had not spoken. He stared at Yusaf, who stared back, disgust barely veiled in his eyes.

‘Then, with great regret, I must take my leave. Your majesty … My queen.’

He had not been dismissed, but Yusaf rose anyway, his knees cracking in the hush. Guards came forward, one on either side, to hold him still or to help him depart, whichever was commanded.

Agrippa waved him away. ‘Leave the eight talents in our treasury after you are gone. If we return them to you, and so refuse your request, know that it will be in sorrow, but that we do what is best for our city.’

‘Your city is in riot, majesty,’ Yusaf answered. ‘The Syrians bay for your blood. Know that we would have prevented it, had we been granted the power to do so.’

KLEITOS WAS A
large and clumsy moth, flitting haphazardly through Caesarea, along wide streets, with their flower gardens muted under the rising moon; Mergus and Estaph were fleet as wolves on his trail, silent as night owls whose wing feathers make no sound.

Here, in the mercantile quarter, everything was uneasily peaceful. The sounds of the riot were a background mumble, and if there were fires beyond the one that Kleitos and his friends had tried to light, their flames were yet to paint the horizon.

This is not Rome. Not Rome
, Mergus said to himself, timing the words with each footfall.
Not Rome … not fire … not burning
…

He had not realized how afraid he was of fire until the smell of smoke in his nostrils had been tainted also by memories of roasting flesh, and the ears of his mind had been deafened by the screams of men and women, burning. He turned back at each corner and searched the horizon, but saw no fire, yet. The roar of the crowd grew louder though, until it was the roar of a circus crowd, a gladiators’ match, heard from the far side of the city.

Kleitos was heading north towards the Hebrew quarter. Two blocks past the Temple of Tyche, he reached a crossroads and stepped back off the roadway while half a dozen watchmen ran past, heading towards the palace. Mergus raked his gaze along the line to see if Jucundus was among them – he wasn’t – and when he looked back again, Kleitos was gone.

‘That way,’ Estaph said, and pointed.

Cursing, Mergus followed him at a run across the open street and into the road end beyond. The area had been prosperous once, with small, neat houses and lush gardens; recent neglect had left it shabby.

There was worse than neglect ahead. Making his way cautiously through the dark, Mergus saw scaffolding loom ahead and by that sign knew they had reached the beleaguered synagogue, where Pantera had met Estaph and over which men were rioting down near the palace.

‘Stop.’ Mergus caught Estaph’s elbow. ‘This is a trap. Kleitos has gone too easily and into a place that we know. If we follow him in there, we’ll meet more than six against us.’

Feeling Estaph hold still at his side, Mergus took time to peer through the dusk. Night was on them now, so that grey starlight made of his hand a phantom, stole his feet that he might not see where he trod. Ahead, in the synagogue’s porch, a flame was struck, and a small lamp lit. Shadows leered from either side; men waited, and something else, that fluttered and cried and then died, suddenly, with the soft noise of a bird’s neck breaking.

Kleitos stepped into the lamplight. He held the bird and laid it down with something approaching reverence on to an olive jar turned upside down.

‘God of all gods …’ Mergus touched the brand of Mithras at his chest. He turned, slowly, backing away. ‘They’ve sacrificed a dove on an upturned vessel.’ And then, at the unchanged contours of Estaph’s face, ‘It’s what they do here to cleanse a building of leprosy; they’re saying the god of the Hebrews is a leper.’

Estaph’s eyes gleamed. ‘When your friend and I removed a sow’s head from the porch, I thought they could do nothing worse. I was wrong; this is a thousand times worse. If the Hebrews find this …’

‘They won’t. It must be removed.’ Grimly Mergus looked back along the route they had come. ‘I’ll stay here. You should find Jucundus and—’

‘No.’ Estaph took his arm. ‘I am Estaph of Parthia, axeman and son of axemen. I do not walk away from battle.’

‘This is not your fight. And we are outnumbered. I counted five men, including Kleitos.’

‘It is not your fight, either, but we have already killed together this night, there is no reason to stop now. How well can you throw your knife?’

‘Well enough.’

‘Good.’ Estaph slid one of his axes into his belt. The other was shining, the colour of the moon. He raised it in salute. ‘Your friend, Pantera – he draws men to him, I think, and they take risks for his sake?’

Mergus nodded, his mouth set.

‘So then we will make the risks less, and we will live through it, so that he has no need to find yet others to follow him into danger.’

Mergus found himself smiling too tightly, with his throat hard. He reached out and grasped Estaph’s forearm, up high, by the elbow, so they linked, arm to arm, as legionaries did before battle. ‘Take care, my friend.’

‘And you keep away from my side. The axes need room to swing.’

And thus it was that, dry-mouthed, Mergus wormed his way forward until he could see all of the porch, and the shadows of men around it, and the small pot, with the zigzag lines drawn in blue below its lip, and the maker’s mark on its upturned base, half hidden by the limp body of the dove.

Men gathered about it, weapon-ready and sharp, watching out to the night. Kleitos was among them, but boxed in by
others, so there was no clear space through which a knife might pass.

Frustrated in his first choice, Mergus picked instead the tallest of the men, who carried a knife in one hand and a bow in the other. In the absolute dark of the shadows, he rose to his feet, sighted and threw.

The blade was a glimmer of torchlight, flying. And then a hilt, buried under a man’s chin, with thin blood spraying like spittle from his throat. It was not a clean throw, but it was good enough; and already Estaph was passing him, roaring, with his two moon-bladed axes spinning in the torchlight.

Mergus gripped his own knife and, screaming, hurled himself after.

THEY WERE IN
the queen’s private apartments: Berenice, Drusilla and Hypatia. Outside the window, the ocean raged. White waves cut with moonlight smashed the rocks at the foot of the headland. Beyond, all the sea was black as silk. Almost, it was possible to forget the riots, if one concentrated on the violence of the sea.

Hypatia turned back into the room. She had been given leave to stand, to move around, to do whatever might be necessary for the wisdom of Isis to come to her chosen vessel.